


His brilliant friend

by UlsPi



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet, Literature, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-28 11:31:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20425271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UlsPi/pseuds/UlsPi
Summary: A night conversation between Crowley and his patron human





	His brilliant friend

**Author's Note:**

> Listen, if I give Aziraphale a chat with Wilde, I absolutely must give Crowley a chat with Goethe. I think they got along famously.

Quiet rustling on the poet's window brings the old man back to reality. He is handsome, despite his old age, holds himself both humbly and majestically, knows his worth and knows that everyone else does too, so unless there is a need, why push his glory any harder? As it happens, there's no need. A giant snake is on his window one moment, and the next a young man with copper red hair sits there instead of the serpent. The impossibly long legs separate, one stays on the window sill, another practically falls inside. The man has snake like eyes, ember and stilted pupils. He grins happily.  
"Oh, it's you, my dear. How good to see you!" the poet lightly gets up and walks to the window.  
"Good evening, herr von Goethe. How have you been?" says the man, his grin growing even wider, as he brings Goethe's hand to his lips.  
"Missed you, Crowley. I missed you terribly, dear boy, and I don't think I deserve such negligence."  
"Oh, you have no idea what you deserve."  
"What, are they terribly interested in me downstairs?" Goethe asks nonchalantly, and it's genuine nonchalance. The man knows his worth both here and in whatever place he ends up after he leaves this life.  
"First of all, do you think I care for you so little, I would let you ever end up in hell?"  
Goethe smiles at this and puts his hand, beautiful hand of an artist, a scientist, a poet, on Crowley's cheek.  
"And second?" Goethe asks.  
"And second, rumour is God Herself is very much interested in you, so nothing to worry about."  
"If I learned anything from my life and your stories, it's that now I have a very good reason to worry."  
They both laugh.  
"Wine, my dear?"  
"Don't mind a glass, poet. Scientist. Artist."  
They settle with their glasses, Goethe joining Crowley on the window sill, their legs outside on the soft ivy that hadn't ever been that lush, the moon floating above them.  
"What have you been up to, my dear?" asked Goethe, as he turns his beautiful, perfect face to the demon.  
"Here and there. Causing some trouble. Sorry about your wife. She was a remarkable woman. I chose well."  
"You did, Crowley. Thank you. And thank you again for getting me out of here in 1786."  
"My pleasure, poet, artist, scientist, beautiful human being. But we met afterwards, didn't we?"  
"We did, but I'll always be grateful."  
"No need to. The last thing a demon needs is gratefulness," Crowley sighs, suddenly sad and concerned.  
"Have I reminded you of something? Of someone? My dear boy, you never told me what happened when you left for France in 1793. I was so worried about you."  
"Nothing happened, poet. Nothing ever will. But, just like you, he was very grateful."  
Goethe's fingers touch Crowley's chin and turn his face to the poet, who leans closer and ever so softly kisses Crowley's lips. After a few moments, the kiss deepens, but somehow for both of them it's still a friend's kiss. There is no passion to it, nor lust. The kiss is not even erotic, it doesn't arouse, but it's a kiss of acceptance, the gift Goethe had been giving Crowley since they met.  
"You taste of very fruitful life, poet, you are still so full of promise. Your old age is even more beautiful than your youth, and I thought nothing could beat that."  
"And you taste of being the original Werther. Was it the last time you saw him, your angel?"  
"More or less, but we had crepes, and he doesn't seem to care that much about anything else."  
Goethe laughs, his hand still on Crowley's face, and gives the demon another kiss, this one longer, as if he were trying to read Crowley's story off of his mouth.  
"Were it so, darling, you wouldn't have rushed here and asked for each and every first edition of mine to be signed."  
"Alright, and the books. And humans, none of whom compares to you, poet."  
This time it is Crowley who initiates the kiss, and leaving Goethe's lips, he moves to kiss his eyelids and forehead.  
"How come a demon can give such blessings?"  
"Must be the angelic influence. I can't bless anything, and I would absolutely love to bless you, poet, you are the best of them."  
"I'm afraid, sometimes I can be rather imposing. Just the other day I was told that I tempt people, draw them to me like fire, and then they burn, poor, little, helpless souls," Goethe shakes his head, self-reproach and sarcasm in his voice.  
"So, it's true then, Lotte did come."  
"She did."  
"Was it… pleasant?" Crowley asks carefully.  
"What do you think?"  
"I think it was terrible. Might have convinced her she had made the right choice, but for you… I do think it is too early for you to start revisiting. As I said, you are still so full of promise."  
"How come you understand me so well?"  
"Dearest poet, I've known you since you were a boy."  
"True. And devouring time has done nothing to you, which is hardly surprising, but makes me a bit jealous."  
"Which is a sin. Part of my job," Crowley grins, but he's sad.  
"You are much more beautiful now, though, and I think you should know it, my poet," Crowley cups Goethe's face and kisses his left cheek.  
"My artist," he moves to kiss his right cheek.  
"My scientist," he kisses his mouth.  
"My fucking equal," he smiles tenderly and buries his hands into Goethe's hair, his forehead against the poet's.  
Their wine glasses are long abandoned, hanging in the night air, shaking in the gentle wind.  
"I think, my dear, that you are missing something."  
"Which is?" Crowley is not ready for what Goethe is about to say, so when the poet does say it, Crowley straightens up and looks at him in pain.  
"It seems that your angel gets in trouble on purpose. How many times have you come to his aid?"  
"Are you suggesting that it's his way of telling me he wants to see me? Very risky, if you ask me."  
"That's how desperate he is for your company, dearest."  
"So, what do you imply?"  
"I'm not implying anything, Crowley, but it would be much easier for you to keep him safe, if you lived in the same town, for example. It will save you both a lot of trouble."  
"Poet, you love me, you accept me. Why would I ever leave you?"  
"You've left me plenty of times and always returned, but you deserve to be happy, and to achieve that, you need to be closer to your angel. You don't need me to convince you, you know very well yourself that this is what you want."  
"I don't think I care about what I want."  
"Such a selfless demon."  
"I'm as selfish as any demon, poet, please."  
"Yes, that's why you leave the moment your angel needs you, and you know he needs you even before he does. That's not selfish. That's pure, that's knightly."  
"I know how to spin a story, poet, I might as well have convinced you of something you'd like to believe, and ruin both you and the angel in the process. How very devilishly clever of me, isn't it?"  
"It's dark in here, Crowley, but I can still see that dawn-like shade of pink on your face."  
"Does it suit me?"  
"It doesn't, Crowley. You are a demon after all. I'm sorry I won't be there when you and your angel figure everything out, find a way to be together, without fear or remorse."  
"You're saying goodbye, poet."  
"I am, my sweet, dearest demon, my lovely friend. I know you'll return to me, even if you return to me in death."  
"I don't want to hurt you, Johann."  
"You never could, Crowley. You are so much bigger than me, you so much different. When I say I miss you, I don't mean it takes my breath away, or that I dedicate a few minutes each day to thinking about you. No, it's not like that. Every now and then it occurs to me how long it has been since we last saw each other. And then you come. Go, darling, don't rest and don't make haste."  
Crowley pulls Goethe into an embrace, and disappears.  
He will end up taking a long nap, from 1819 till 1832, when he wakes up chilled and knows his friend has died. He will then have another nap, until late 1850s, and the longest ever not long afterwards, from 1862 till 1940.

**Author's Note:**

> I can't grasp the footnotes, so I'm clarifying things now. Their conversation takes place in 1816, 16 years before Goethe's death. A visit from Lotte, who inspired Lotte in "The sorrows of young Werther", is basically the plot of Thomas Mann's "Lotte in Weimar". I'm not sure, can't remember and don't have a book at hand, which year it takes place, but it's about the late 1810s. For the sake of the plot, I might have moved it a bit. Goethe's words about being temptation and suchlike are roughly what Lotte tells Goethe at the end of the novel.  
In 1786 Goethe practically ran away from Weimar for some much needed holiday time in Italy. He was the most influential and important statesman in Weimar at that moment. On returning, he met a lovely woman who he began living with almost immediately. They married when Christiane fought off French soldiers who invaded Weimar in general and Goethe's house in particular, which happened 10 years after they had met.  
Thank you for reading. Comments are love, and kudos are too.


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